


EOD

by Featherfloof



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 06:09:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Featherfloof/pseuds/Featherfloof
Summary: Jamison Fawkes is a Sergeant in the Australian 3rd Combat Engineer Regiment, working as an EOD (explosive ordinance disposal) amidst the war in the middle east.  The confidence in his skills is shattered when a bomb unexpectedly explodes before him, almost taking his life and he ends up in the capable hands of a biomedical engineer, Doctor Angela Ziegler, at Germany's Landstuhl Regional Medical Center and becomes a subject of her budding nanotechnology research with artificial limbs.  There's something about her that instantly grabs his attention, aside from her stunning looks, and he devotes himself towards discovering just what it is about her that is drawing him in despite his deep-rooted distrust in physicians.(This is an AU piece set into modern times and a slow work in progress)





	EOD

Jamison Fawkes blew out a calm, steady breath through his dry, cracked lips and did his best to ignore the sting in his eyes as sweat dripped down his forehead and ran along the ridge of his nose to drip down on the clear visor that was promised to protect his mug in the event that things went wrong.

He needn’t worry about things going wrong.

Things never went wrong. Not on his watch. The sweat that covered every inch of his skin wasn’t from fear or anxiety. It was because it got damned bloody hot in this monkey suit. If anything was a distraction while he worked, it was sweating like a roasting pig inside his EOD suit.

“Bloody Christ…” He swore under his breath, blinking through the stinging in his eyes, the amber hues focused intently on his task.

His fingers worked meticulously as he pried apart wires, cutting at the duct tape that haphazardly held the improvised device together. He had to hand it to the men that devised such deadly and catastrophic tinkerings from nothing but scraps. Built to look inconspicuous in a world of dust and trash.

He’d seen first hand what they could do. He’d always taken a personal joy and satisfaction when he later detonated the devices he defused on the range. He’d shudder at the thought of those explosions going off among his mates, like they were intended to do.

Jamison had an impeccable track record of 100% retrieval. He’d never failed a mission. It was an obsession of his, studying these bombs. Making his own (without explosives, of course). He’d once made a bomb that if accidentally detonated, would trigger a massive tube of glitter to explode. He’d enjoyed taking pictures of the aftermath when his EOD mate failed to defuse it properly. The poor bloke was still finding glitter on himself weeks later.

To stay ahead of the game, he needed to learn the ever changing and evolving techniques that their enemies utilized.

His mates lives depended on it.

His life depended on it.

Jamison's hands moved steadily as he held the device, reaching to his side with one hand as he gripped his wire cutters and brought them forward without hesitation to cut a red wire that protruded from a small electrical board. From a cell phone no doubt. Bastards loved to use mobiles to remotely detonate their bombs. He moved the cutters to snip a green wire that connected the electronics to the plastic drinking container it was connected to. Probably stuffed to the brim with potassium chlorate, he guessed. One thing he’s learned over the years is that wire color really doesn’t even matter. It’s all down to what is attached where. Sometimes it seemed that the bombs creators had a sense of humor, as the infamous red wire that Hollywood often portrayed as the wire to not cut, was often the one that needed to be cut. Maybe they were hoping for a less confident bomb tech.

“No boom for you, mate.” Jamison muttered to himself, smirking, as he set the device aside, confident that he’d defused it. Hopefully the bastards were lurking somewhere nearby, recording him. He loved to show them that their diabolical efforts were futile. He was certain by now that they probably had a hit out on him for spoiling so many of their plans.

He looked up then towards the unit of men in the distance who’d called him in to take care of the device they’d found while on patrol and signaled with his hands that all was clear. Behind him, his best mate Mako spoke into the comm that the mission was a success, his low voice indiscernible as he rumbled his report to command.

Not wasting another moment to suck down a breath of fresh air, Jamison stood and started clawing at the Velcro straps behind his neck to free himself from the cumbersome helmet, desperate to feel a breeze on his face.

Normally it wouldn’t be an issue, as his unit had just gotten an upgraded suit that had a battery operated cooling system attached to it, but of course, as luck would have it, the battery had been dead when they’d mobilized to roll out and Jamison had to settle on suiting up in an older, outdated model.

Old Bessy, he’d affectionately dubbed it, stealing the term from a Yank he’d made friends with back at the Forward Operating Base, or FOB.

“Gwaaahhh!” He sighed elatedly as he ripped the plated Kevlar helmet off of his head, immediately feeling the marginally cooler outside air sucking away the heat and dampness that pinned his sweat drenched hair to his head. He rose a hand then to comb his fingers back through his shaggy mane, putting it to relatively normal straights as he pulled in a long breath, filling his lungs.

Although the air was still a torturous one-hundred and two degrees, it still felt leagues better than being inside the stagnant musty cloud that hung within the suit. As if just having his head poking out wasn’t enough, Jamison started shrugging himself out of the suit, the suspenders holding it at his waist as he removed his right arm and began tugging at his sweat dampened shirt.

“Blimey,” he groaned, enjoying the feel of the air fanning over his damp, fevered skin.

In the distance he could hear the other men calling out their gratitude for the job well done. Jamison grinned impishly and rose a hand to salute in acknowledgement.

“No worries, mates!" He called out to them proudly.

"Get that thing and let’s roll out.” Mako grumbled behind him, never liking to be in one place for too long.

Mako wasn’t EOD. He was actually a special forces grunt who’d been assigned to Jamison to act as his body guard and a second pair of eyes while he was out on calls to investigate and deactivate explosive devices. Again, because his superiors feared a personal vendetta.

“Yeh, yeh, don’t getcher knickers in a twist.” Jamison retorted as he bent to pluck the device from the ground.

An immense wall of pressure and heat suddenly exploded before him, engulfing him as pain seemed to ricochet through his body from the inside out, searing in it’s intensity. He felt his body impact the ground hard and heard nothing but deafening ringing in his ears and the rapid, uneven pounding of his own heart echoing in his head.

He thought he heard his name being shouted above the din, but he wasn’t sure. All he could focus on was the pain. White hot that burned through every fiber of his being with every beat of his heart. He felt himself going weightless after a while and the pain intensified. He heard yelling then, a chilling sound that strangely made his own throat feel tight and dry.

It took him a while to come to the realization that he was the one screaming, then almost all at once, everything seemed to drift away, leaving him in a hollow, silent void of darkness.

Time seemed to stand still and the blackness slowly drained away to a blinding white light.

He lay completely still, his thoughts muddled and fuzzy. Every now and again he could hear hushed voices echoing in the space around him.

Jamison struggled to make out what was being said, but gave up, the effort too exhausting. It felt like days passed as he lay in the white void, his body heavy - too heavy to move. He tried, but it was almost like he’d been weighed down with sand bags. The muscles in his neck would stiffen as he’d work up the effort to sit up enough to look down at himself to see why he couldn’t move, but even that was too much of a strain. The efforts left him feeling as though he’d just ran ten miles in the blistering heat.

Drained. Thirsty. Sore. So sore. The pain had subsided for the most part, save for his right arm and leg. It still pounded there with a dull ache that rose to sharp pains every now and again.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he felt a cool, reassuring touch break through the dreary fog of nothingness that had become his world. Slender fingers wrapped around his left wrist as a soft, almost angelic voice murmured unintelligible words to him.

He mentally clung to that contact, to the voice that echoed in his head and seemed to wrap him in a tangible blanket of comfort, encouraging him to hold on.

So he did.

The touch and voice would drift off at times, but he held on. Waited for it to return. And it always did. Like a lifeline that had been thrown to a drowning man, Jamison clung onto the moments when that soft melodic voice came to speak to him. With every feather light touch, more and more of the fog would lift away. Gentle fingers would drift over his face, comb back through his hair, lace between his own fingers before giving an encouraging squeeze and would drift away once more.

_No, don’t…don'tcha leave me…_

He heard his voice echo in his head, unsure if he’d spoken the words out loud. But then that soft voice drifted back in answer.

_I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you._


End file.
